The Bustle in a House
by Team Bonet
Summary: D'artagnan remembers a summer day spent with Athos and Raoul


**The Bustle in a House**   
  


D'artagnan had a headache. He had retired to his bed last night with a headache, and had awakened with his head still throbbing through one. Nothing helped. He turned on his side, placed his hand under the pillow and below his temples, turned on his back, one hand over his eyes. He shifted to the foot of the bed, snaked his way up to the head board, covers twisting around his legs, night gown pulling at his neck. He arranged and rearranged his pillow. None of it was any good. His temples pounded, echoing throughout his body, keeping him awake, aware of the ticking minutes. 

_I'll get a drink of water, that's what I'll do. A nice, cold drink of water. There's nothing else to do._ He reached for his robe, placed on a hook beside his bed, and pulled it on, tightening the cords as he stepped out into the hall. Grey morning light hung over the corridors, muting the gold patterns running along the deep red of the walls, accentuated with tiny fleur de lis in cobalt blue. A clock chimed the hour, five in the morning. The halls would remain empty well into ten in the morning. It would just be him, and the occasional guard, till then. 

The guards' quarters were to the left of the palace, silent and ponderous in the half light of the early morning. The courtyard seemed empty, alien, as he crossed towards the subterranean kitchen. It would only be an hour before it filled with young, sleep weary trainees, cadets, hopeful youths, young men pulling the heavy, blue cassocks bearing the cross insignia of the royal guard, the musketeers, over their heads. It would seem so different then, full of motion and voices raised in salute or banter, not silent and grey, tinged with an eery white mist, smelling of cool stones. He smiled, rubbing at his neck. _I should've brought my uniform with me. It won't do for the trainees to see my in my robes._

He rubbed at his temples. The headache was not going away. Maybe he could ask one of the older guards if he knew of any cure. _Athos would know, if he were here, and if he'd even consider talking to me after the last time we met._ D'artagnan sighed. The last time they had seen each other, he had told Athos that it had not been the king's desire that his son, Raoul, die in service. Athos had not listened. D'artagnan was not all that certain he would have listened to himself. It was all too simple, so damn simple, with the king. If he wanted a woman, he'd just have her. If that woman had a lover, just send him off to war, and let it take care of him if it would. And it had. It had. Now Athos' friendship seemed lost to him, and God knew how long it would take Athos to put things aside. _Damn it, it wasn't my fault._

The water inside the metal cup was cold against his skin as he poured himself a drink. It tasted like nothing, did little for his headache. He set down the cup, let his head sink into his hands. He had to stop thinking about Athos. Thinking wasn't going to do anything for his headache. But thoughts keep slipping in, pounding alongside his heart, taking him back to a time when things had been different. He saw Athos, looking down at his from atop the stairs leading to Monsieur Tréville's office all those years back, in the summer of twenty five, when he had come to enlist in the musketeers. The look in Athos' eyes as he challenged him to a duel. 

"You have no manners, _monsieur_," he said, rubbing at the place where D'artagnan had collided with him, the very place where he had been hurt in a recent battle. Earlier, D'artagnan had seen him faint away from the wound, carried off to be tended by Tréville's surgeon. And now, he had managed to strike in the precise spot he should have avoided. D'artagnan bowed, apologized, defended his manners and those who had taught them to him, turned to hurry down the stairs. He heard Athos call out to him. 

"If you wish to see me again --me, you understand-- don't hesitate to look me up." 

He was not smiling, but there was a certain something in his eyes, drawing D'artagnan to him. The Gascon was young, impressionable. Athos was older, composed, at ease with himself. "When?" He heard himself say. 

"Noon. At the Carmes-Deschaux." 

D'artagnan had accepted. He could never forget that day, even when everything else had become a blur he could only recall if he looked through his notes, journals, and the assorted trinkets, medals, and sentimental mementoes he had picked up throughout his years of service to the king. That afternoon had been clear, blue skies yawning above him. He never had the chance to carry out his duel with Athos, but there were no regrets at that. D'artagnan smiled, taking another drink of water. Athos had become his friend, no questions asked, since that day. It was to D'artagnan that he confessed his secrets and fears, if never completely. They had been close, very close. The old Gascon sighed, one hand rising to massage his temples. _But now that he has lost Raoul, Athos may never forgive me for serving Louis._

D'artagnan made his way back to his quarters quietly, the sounds his bare feet made over the gravel paths drowned out by the crisp, morning air. He pulled his robe closer about him, rubbing his hands together for warmth. His thoughts had scattered for a moment, and he took in the morning around him with an air of content, the understanding of an eternity that meant nothing because it was the urgent there and then, a lazy minute, threading through him with the early calls of the birds above him. 

The floor boards of his room were cool under his feet as he closed the door behind him. He wished it was later than six in the morning. It was too early to ring for breakfast and he had forgotten to bring back anything to eat from the guard's quarters. His stomach rumbled. He ignored it, took a seat by the window, feet propped up on the chair set beside it to match. Chin resting on his knuckles, he gazed out at the mist enshrouded castle grounds, shapes shifting before his eyes as drowsiness stole over him. His eyelids dropped, sleep and memory both wrapping silent arms around him.   


  


* * * * * * * * * * 

It had been almost four years ago. Raoul would have been around twenty seven years of age, wavy hair growing too long for the tastes of his father. The young man sat obediently before him as Athos trimmed his hair, the discarded locks falling on a pile on the floor and clinging to the bed sheets Athos had fastened around Raoul's shoulders with a clothesline pin. D'artagnan was off- duty, a glass of cool cider cradled in his hand as he visited and watched Athos work, the silence between them interrupted only by the snips of the scissors. It was a hot afternoon in late May. Reports from the capital claimed that temperatures would only go up. 

Drawing a hand over his damp forehead, Athos removed his coat, draping it over the first thing he found. Raoul shifted in his seat. His father held out a hand, fingers hovering over the young man's ears. "No, no," he said. "Don't move, Raoul. Just a little more off from the left side and I'm done." 

Raoul smiled, his eyes falling on D'artagnan, who could only offer a crooked grin and shrug his shoulders. He could tell Athos had caught their exchange. "D'artagnan," his friend said, his voice coloured with a laugh not mirrored on his face, "please stop that. If Raoul laughs I'll lose my place and ruin his good looks." 

Athos' son blushed. "_Monsieur_ is very kind, but he very well knows that I have no real good looks." 

D'artagnan emptied his cup, standing up to pat Raoul's shoulder warmly. "Nonsense, my boy. You're handsome enough. By the grace of God you resemble your father in only the best and not the worst." Saying this, he cast Athos a sideways glance, a smile playing across his lips. Athos combed his fingers through his son's hair, taking a thoughtful snip before combing his fingers through it again. 

"True," he said, slowly. "No one is more grateful for that than me. But there. Stand up, Raoul, I'm done." 

Unfastening the clothesline pin, Athos drew away the sheet and Raoul stood up, one hand rising to feel the back of his head. D'artagnan held up a mirror for him, Athos holding up another behind Raoul's head. The young man chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck, now almost visible through the wavy strands that nestled around it. "It looks good," he murmured, causing a faint smile to form on his father's lips. He folded the sheet and placed it beside his coat, taking the mirror D'artagnan held. 

"You can go out now, take a walk among the cypress grove if you like. Supper won't be ready for a few hours and you shouldn't be cooped up in here with two old men." As he said this, Athos bent to kiss his son's forehead, Raoul's arms wrapping around him before he turned to go. D'artagnan nodded his head at the boy's polite farewell, watching him as he stepped out and made his way towards the lane beyond the house his father and he walked for hours on end every evening. The Gascon could feel Athos' eyes following the shape of his son. 

"D'artagnan," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "Have I done right?" 

D'artagnan turned to look at Athos. He looked serious, the brooding melancholy of those years before he had discovered Raoul stealing over him for a moment. His friend folded his arms behind his back, leaning back against the supports of the door. "If you mean if you have raised Raoul to be a fine man, then, yes, you have done right. You have done more than right. He's a fine boy." 

"Better than me?" 

D'artagnan smiled, reached out to place a hand over Athos' shoulder. "There is little to perfect in you, my friend." He saw Athos narrow his eyes, taking in his friend's words as if they were something palpable, something he could take in his hands and pull apart until he could understand it completely. D'artagnan saw him thin his lips, accepting his friend's compliment but still unconvinced. Huh, he murmured, reaching up to pat D'artagnan's hand over his shoulder before he turned towards his pantry, pulling out a small jug of cider. 

"But there, you haven't come to spend your time off duty listening to an old father muse to himself. It's getting hotter, we should have a drink." 

Pouring the last dregs of cider into his own cup, Athos pushed the other towards his friend. D'artagnan couldn't bring himself to move from his place by the door for a moment. Athos wasn't looking at him, his back turned to him as he rummaged through the lower cabinets of his sink. His brown hair, the grays lost in the sunlight coming in through the windows, was pulled back in a crude ponytail, a few strands coming loose. He looked old, much too big for his house, his clothes rumpled and soiled from working in the garden he kept in the back. D'artagnan thinned his lips, holding back a sigh, and sat at the chair Athos had pulled out for him. 

"How are the musketeers?" Athos said, coming back to the table with a bottle of white wine. "I hear you're getting new recruits from left and right now a days." Pausing, he looked at D'artagnan quietly, studying him for a moment through narrowed eyes before the shadow of a smile played across his lips. "It must feel nice, still having something to do with your life." 

D'artagnan smiled, a crooked grin many found charming. "It's... it's nice, yes. I look forward to retirement with every passing day." Athos chuckled, causing his friend's smile to widen. "They are very demanding young men, Athos. I can't help but feel things would be better if you were there." 

Athos finished off his cider, bending down to uncork his bottle of wine. "You know I retired a long time ago for good reason. Raoul needed me." Straightening, he filled his cup, passing the bottle to D'artagnan. "Besides, you're a much better captain than I would ever be. You have a charming disposition, you're still young, eager, and the master of an admirably controlled temper. You are everything I could never be at this stage of my life." 

"You're charming enough," D'artagnan said, filling his own cup with wine and replacing the cork on the bottle. From outside, a man called out to his flock of sheep, the animals bleating in response. "Have you considered enlisting Raoul?" 

The older man nodded, chin resting on his palm, fingers curling over his lips. "I have, for the longest time. But you know I don't want to force Raoul into anything. I guess I've been waiting for him to bring it up." 

"Even if he does it merely to please you?" 

The clock set on the mantelpiece struck one in the afternoon. Athos eyes flickered towards it momentarily before returning to their careful study of the kitchen table. "I hope that I have successfully taught Raoul that he doesn't need to please me all the time. Of course, I wish nothing but the best for him, and I'm not denying it would please me if he joined the musketeers, but I also wish him to be as happy as he can be. All that I have done for him would mean nothing if he were unhappy." 

D'artagnan finished the remains in his cup at one gulp, leaned back in his chair in order to study the older man. Athos was hunched over the table, fingers playing across his lower lip, eyes travelling down the imperfections in the table's wood with an almost methodical slowness. "Forgive me," D'artagnan said. "I shouldn't have said that." 

Athos shook his head. He didn't say anything, but D'artagnan could see that his friend was not angry. Anger in Athos would have been a flash of the eyes, a thinning of the lips, a tight, polite word. Rising, the Gascon walked towards the window overlooking the cypress grove, leaned against its worn, hunter green shutters. 

Athos pulled at a loose thread on his shirt. "I think he _will_ join the musketeers, don't you, D'artagnan?" 

The Gascon thinned his lips, nodded. He couldn't think of anything to say. He heard his old friend grunt to himself, his chair scrapping against the wooden boards of the room as he rose to join D'artagnan by the window. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes gazing down at his feet. They stood there, in silence, for what seemed like the longest time. The clouds drifted by in the hot, still afternoon, the heat clinging to their skin and blurring the brilliant blues and greens of the landscape. D'artagnan rubbed at his eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had become little more than a blinding, yellow light. He heard Athos chuckle. 

"You've been living at the court for too long, D'artagnan. You should come to visit me and Raoul more often, learn a little about real heat and the most rewarding of country estate comforts." 

The old Gascon grunted. "That's not entirely fair, coming from a man who has removed his coat." 

Athos smiled. "You could remove yours, you know. Here. Hold up your hands." 

Unfastening his friend's musket and sword from around his waist, Athos pulled D'artagnan's heavy, blue cassock over his head, draping it across the table. D'artagnan seemed at a loss for a moment, standing at an awkward stance without his full uniform. He pulled off his gloves, placing them on top of the plumed hat he had to wear with his uniform. he had never liked the silly thing. It had seemed ridiculous in his youth, and now it seemed frivolous in his old age. He pulled at its bright, red feather. 

"Raoul should be coming back any minute now," Athos said. "He doesn't much care for the heat, either. And it _has_ been unbearable lately, hasn't it? I broke my last thermometer over Christmas, when Raoul caught that fever the miller's son had, so I have no idea what the temperatures are. Ah well. Not that it matters. It's hot, that's all. Must be terrible in Paris, and it isn't even August yet. Maybe the musketeers should get a special summer uniform. You know, so you won't be loosing any men to heat strokes and--" 

D'artagnan placed a hand over his friend's shoulder. He saw Athos start, eyes blinking at the sky, one hand rising to hover over his temples. As he turned towards D'artagnan, his eyebrows knitted together. "I'm sorry. What was I saying...?" 

"Athos, sit down, my friend. Have a drink. I think this heat's getting to you." 

Filling Athos' glass, he slid it close to his friend, watched him gulp it down. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the look was gone as quickly as it had come. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling off the dirty string of yarn he had used to tie it back. He looked at it in his hands for a while, a thin, grey clump, little bits of wool sticking out, a few strands of hair curling tightly around it. 

"Father?" 

Athos was on his feet before D'artagnan could even greet Raoul back. He watched in silence as father and son embraced, Athos kissing both of his son's cheek in turn, Raoul wrapping his arms around his father's back. The Gascon couldn't really hear what they were saying. He saw their mouths move in smiles and small talk. Raoul was climbing the stairs, Athos calling up to him from the landing below, the quiet bustle of his son's return transforming him, his hand hovering over the banister, his smile warm. Like it had been all those years past, at the Carmes-Deschaux, during all the campaigns and the nights spent waiting, coming back to a warm room and dinner and the company of a friend. D'artagnan smiled. He came to stand beside his friend, arms folded behind his back. 

"D'artagnan," Athos said. the Gascon tilted his head in acknowledgement. The older man didn't look at him, his eyes still resting on the door his son had closed behind him. His smile was gone, replaced by a narrow eyed weariness, a brooding D'artagnan could not understand but felt comfortable with. "I'm certain that Raoul will join the musketeers. I could wish him nothing better. Will you... will you promise me something?" 

"Anything." 

"Please take care of my son. If he ever joins your men, please take care of him for me."   


  


* * * * * * * * * * 

The door to D'artagnan's quarters cracked open. He started awake, his vision scattering, becoming shadowy even as he turned to look at the guard that had come to his door. The young man looked embarrassed, a paper clutched to his chest. D'artagan rubbed at his eyes, motioning for the guard to come in with his free hand. The young man stepped into the centre of the room, looking for all the world as if he had swallowed a slug. He held out the paper he had been clutching to himself towards D'artagnan. The Gascon read through it quickly. 

"A masked ball...? In four weeks?" 

The guard swallowed, but had the sense to summon his composure. "Yes, sir. His Majesty, King Louis XIV, has just handed me this dispatch for you. The prolonged problems with the British have begun to tax on his majesty's nerves, and he wishes to be entertained." 

D'artagnan sighed, dismissed the guard as gently as he could, and let his head fall against the backboard of his chair once he was alone. Pieces of his memory played and replayed themselves out in the back of his mind, Athos' words becoming a harsh echo, accusing him. He drew a hand over his eyes. The darkness he found there was cold and empty. 

"Athos," he murmured. "God, I don't know what to say, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry that i couldn't take better care of your son..." 

His words died, hollow and meaningless, in the emptiness of his room. From the hallway, he could hear the clock as it struck eight in the morning. A door opened and shut along the corridor, the sound echoing back to him. He removed his hand from his eyes, gazed at the pale blue colour of his walls. Outside, the sun had already risen, golden shadows stretching out across the palace grounds and the boards of his room. Another day. D'artagnan rose from his chair. Soon, the palace would be the centre of its daily bustle, like a household at sawn before a wedding, a move, a funeral. D'artagan liked the bustle. He could become lost in it, not have to think. Not have to remember. He liked it that way.   


END   
  


Author's Note, 2 June 1998: 

End. C'est Fini. Final. Se Acabó. No hay más na'. This is the End. Finito. No More. End of the Road. Zip. Nada. Owari. Tsuduku Dewa Nai. Go Home. Show's Over. Please Exit to the Left of the Theatre, Folks. Fin de la Función. Cuidado al Guiar. 

The events presented in this story --although based widely on Randall Wallace's 1998 movie version of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ and Gabriel Byrne's and John Malkovich's portrayals of D'artagnan and Athos-- were inspired not only by the movie but also by Dumas' novel. In addition to this, the characterizations of D'artagan and Athos were also based on those of my good friend Joram (as the Irish-esque Gascon) and myself (as the pinky-ringed Athos). 

The title for this story came --like two of Michael Nyman's titles for songs he composed for the movie _The Piano-- _from a poem by Emily Dickinson, No. 1078, written c.1866.   


© 24 May-2 June 1998 Team Bonet. _The Man in the Iron Mask _is © 1998 United Pictures and Randall Wallace. The characters D'artagnan, Athos, and Raoul are © 1840 Alexandre Dumas and all of those who helped him. Thank you for taking the time to read. 


End file.
